unsafe

I can't remember the last time I felt safe. It's been a while. It feels like I have been stranded in the middle of the ocean, on a canoe with no paddles and nothing but an endless, haunting horizon in sight... on a moonless night. I can not swim—not even to save my life. Quite literally.

It's difficult for me to articulate at the moment, but it's kind of scary. That unsettling, eerie feeling that fills your head with muted noise, ears with tinnitus ringing, and your stomach with jitters.

I'm so tired of taking charge of things, making sure that things are in order, overseeing things, and sometimes, unwillingly micromanaging things. So fucking tired. Maybe I should understand that this is what adulting is, and it sucks balls. I hate being in charge of things. Always be alert. Always be selfless. Always smile and say yes, I will take care of it. Always be responsible for someone younger. I have been doing it since I was a child. I'm tired now. Just please, someone, take care of me. Not that my family doesn't, they do care for me in their own ways. And I'm truly grateful. But there's something that still makes me deeply sad about everything. It hurts persistently for some reason. Sometimes, like a dull ache, and sometimes, like a wild, raging forest fire. Can't put a finger on it. Feels like all the emotions and actions of people around me have an agenda, a vested interest.

I know I may sound like a grumpy 100-year-old who has lived their life with a lot of challenges. But this is my space, and I'm allowing my privileged and perpetually depressed ass to vent here. 

Please Alt+F4 if you're bored; this rant is pointless anyway.